“I had not expected her to learn so quickly,” Sorrel said, rubbing his ribs.
“I got him! I got him!” Clovermead caroled, stabbing her sword to the sky. “Ooh, I’m a dauntless warrior! And I’ll get him again!”
“It must be very rewarding to have so enthusiastic a student,” said Waxmelt.
Sorrel groaned. “Deep, deep down beneath the pain I feel great teacherly pride. Ouch.”
Clovermead spent the next morning doing chin-ups from a branch of a poplar tree near the top of Kestrel Hill.
“They are very good exercise,” said Sorrel. “Besides, I have been tossing and turning half the night. Bad dreams of bears afflict me, brrr! I will rest and you will bemuscle yourself, yes?”
“You don’t feel well because you ate too much of Father’s stew last night,” said Clovermead as she chinned. “You are a lazy glutton who is pompous about being grown up, which you hardly are. You’re a bad example to a tender maiden, and I disapprove of you. Who’s in the right in this war between Low Branding and Chandlefort?”
“Like a butterfly, you flutter from topic to topic in your conversation,” observed Sorrel. “It is hard to answer you. First I will say that I possess many faults, but I cannot be a bad example to a scamp like you. Second I will say that the answer to your last question is high politics and beyond the judgment of simple folks like us.” He hesitated a moment. “It is often said in Linstock that the Mayor of Low Branding had much justice on his side when he began the war. It is also said that he has fought the war most savagely, most cruelly. There are few who think the freedom of Low Branding is worth the butcheries the Mayor has dealt out to achieve it.”
“What butcheries?” asked Clovermead curiously. “The pilgrims don’t talk much about the war when I’m around.”
“They are kind to spare you that knowledge,” said Sorrel shortly. “More chinning, less jawing.” He settled down on the grass with a rock for his pillow.
“Still, I’d like to know.” There was no response from Sorrel. Clovermead sighed and looked north, down Kestrel Hill to the Goat River ford and up to the north pastures of the Vale. Just across the river Gaffer Merrin and an assortment of his sons and dogs led their flock from the Vale Commons to the Merrin Paddock. The Gaffer’s curly white beard made him look like a particularly large ram that had learned to wear clothes, stand on its hind feet, and wield a yew crook. His ruddy-blond sons were more like the Merrin dogs—hairy, dirty, cheerful, and forever on the run after a stray lamb. They halloed to one another, and the echoes floated over the grass stubble of the Commons, the rippling river, and the swell of Kestrel Hill to Clovermead’s ears.
Clovermead let herself hang down. Her feet dangled half a foot off the ground. “Card Merrin over there wants to marry me,” she said to Sorrel, nodding at the smallest figure. “He comes to Ladyrest and he stares at me. He’s thirteen and I hate him. He gets all flustered and boring when he talks to me. He doesn’t read and he doesn’t hunt and he doesn’t do anything exciting. He just likes wrestling with his older brothers and drinking beer when Gaffer Merrin lets him. If I had to marry him, I’d pinch him every day.”
“Pinching and conjugal harmony go very badly together,” said Sorrel. “That was not a saying of the Cyan Cross Horde, but it should have been. It is a wise saying and full of truth. Miss Clovermead, please return to your exercises. They are to your inestimable benefit.”
“Phooey to my inestimable benefit,” said Clovermead, chinning herself over the branch once more.
Now she saw a lone woman in a gray dress walking south on the Road, eating up the distance with a steady gait. She stopped while the Merrin flock eddied in front of her, and waved her thanks to the Merrin sons when they had pushed their bleating charges out of the way. They bowed respectfully.
“Someone important is walking this way,” said Clovermead.
“Impossible. You must have a horse to be important. Any Tansyard will tell you that.” Sorrel sat up and looked north. “A woman traveling by herself? That is most rare.”
The woman crossed the Ford. She slogged through knee-high water—and slipped, falling headlong. Dripping, she got to her feet and disconsolately shook her sleeves.
Clovermead dropped to the ground. “Perhaps nefarious and cruel bandits have stolen her beast and murdered her companions. Not that I’ve ever heard of bandits between here and Snowchapel. If there are any, they would have to be nefarious indeed to rob a poor pilgrim. She must be awfully cold. I think we should do a kind deed.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Drying her off.” Clovermead jogged up the hill to Ladyrest. Sorrel yawned, sprang to his feet, and loped after Clovermead. He caught up with her in the yard behind the kitchen. Clovermead plucked two fluffy towels from the laundry-line and tossed one to him. “Simple hospitality,” she said, and galloped off toward the ford with the towel flapping loosely from her hand. Sorrel folded the second towel over his arm and followed after her.
They came to the woman at the bottom of Kestrel Hill. Clovermead skidded to a halt and thrust forth her towel. “Unknown lady, please use this to dry yourself, courtesy of Ladyrest Inn. Sorrel has one too. You have fought with Goat River, and Goat River has won. I know how you must feel. Once I dove into Bluehorn Lake to see if it was as cold as everyone said. It was. You’re not a pilgrim, are you? I’d remember your face if you’d come north this summer.”
“I am not responsible for Clovermead, madam,” said Sorrel, stepping up behind her. He unfolded his towel, bowed, and proffered it as well. “This cloth has been provided by Ladyrest Inn and Tansyard Portaging Services.”
The woman stared at them bemusedly, made the crescent sign, and bowed. “Thank you very much,” she said. She took their towels and vigorously rubbed her sopping clothes.
Her thick gray dress clung to her from her shoulders to her feet. A white head scarf covered up her hair, her ears, and her neck. She wore a silver pendant of Our Lady at her throat and carried a drenched pack on her shoulders. She was a tall woman whose age-thickened face retained much of its youthful beauty. Raven black and cloud white wisps of hair danced at the edge of her scarf. She had a dreamy look to her that made Clovermead think that this was not the first time she had fallen into a river, or likely to be the last.
“There’s no reason for you to remember my face,” the woman said. She sat down on a granite boulder by the side of the Road and began to squeeze water from her dress. “I came on pilgrimage twelve years ago. I stayed the night at Ladyrest then, but I’ve been a nun at Snowchapel ever since.”
Clovermead’s eyes widened. “Heavens above! Though I suppose you know more about them than I do—professionally, I mean. I’ve never seen a nun before. I thought nuns never left the Chapel. What do you actually do there? What’s your name? Are those a nun’s robes you’re wearing? Does everyone in the order wear that sort of pendant? Where are you going? Do you want to stop at the Ladyrest and have a meal or stay for the night?”
“Next she will ask you for lessons in nunnery,” said Sorrel. “Miss Clovermead will devour you whole with questions and enthusiasm. You must fly for your life while you still can. For me it is too late; leave me to my doom.”
The nun belly-laughed, low and loud. “I’m sure it’s a very pleasant doom to have a pretty girl hanging on your every word. Sorrel is your name? I want to hear no more complaints from you! And you’re Clovermead, miss? Let me see if I can answer your questions in order. The Sisters of the Holy Order of Our Lady’s Sibyls spin wool, grow vegetables, host pilgrims, pray, and watch the Scrying Pool at Snowchapel for glimpses of the future. My name is Sister Rowan. These are my traveling robes, and very itchy linsey-woolsey they are too. The pendant belonged to my dear friend Sister Mendloom, who left the pendant to me when Our Lady took her home.” Sister Rowan made the crescent sign again, slowly and sadly. “Poor Mendy, her arthritis hurt her terribly those last few years. Deary me, what were your last questions?”
“Where are you g
oing?” Clovermead repeated. “Will you stop the night at Ladyrest?”
“Oh, yes! My dear, you should address your questions to me one at a time. I have an awful tendency to forget things. I’m traveling to the Royal Abbey in Queensmart—Our Lady sent me a vision telling me to go. Actually, she sent me visions two nights in a row, but I didn’t remember the first one when I woke up. The second time around she was furious! I woke with an awful headache. I don’t know why Our Lady wants me to go to Queensmart, but there’s no doubt I have to go. I don’t think Abbess Medick really believes I’ve had a vision. I’ve always been terrible at scrying. I see roasts burning, but it always turns out to be me who forgets to watch the meat. Abbess Medick says it doesn’t take prophecy to know I shouldn’t be let loose in the kitchen. But she agreed to let me leave Snowchapel! ‘So you can stop pestering me, Sister’ were her words. But this definitely was a vision! Now, as for your last question . . .” Sister Rowan suddenly blushed. “What was your last question again?”
“Can you stay the night at Ladyrest?” Clovermead asked.
“I’m afraid not. Our Lady definitely told me to hurry. Dear me, I’m afraid I’ve disappointed you, miss. I’m disappointed too. I remember my night at Ladyrest very fondly, and I’d much rather be there than in Queensmart. Queensmart is my home, and I left it, which should tell you what I think of the place.” Sister Rowan pressed her boots tentatively against the ground. They squished. She pulled them off her feet and water poured out. “I don’t think Our Lady will mind if I sit and dry out a few minutes more. If I may ask, what gives you the right to speak for Ladyrest Inn?”
“I am Clovermead Wickward,” said Clovermead portentously, “the innkeeper’s daughter.”
“Are you Mr. Wickward’s baby? My dear, how you’ve grown!” Sister Rowan looked more closely at Clovermead, pinched her cheek, and laughed with delight. “You were just an infant in silk swaddlings when I saw you last. Your hair was as blond then as it is now. I remember running my fingers through it and marveling at how fine it was. Mr. Wickward had just become innkeeper. He hardly knew how to cook—the woman he hired yelled at him frightfully. He jumped a foot in the air every time a pilgrim knocked on the door, and he twitched if anyone looked your way. I told him I wasn’t going to steal you, but he just glowered at me. Is he calmer nowadays?”
“Decidedly,” said Clovermead. “He is so calm that a visitation of flower-priests from Hither Jaifal would not perturb him.”
“I am Sorrel of the Cyan Cross Horde,” Sorrel interjected, thrusting out his chest. “I am a Tansyard vagabond and pilgrim.”
“Merely my tutor,” said Clovermead. Sister Rowan gave Sorrel a sympathetic look. “Why don’t you have a horse?”
A flash of annoyance crossed Sister Rowan’s face. “Abbess Medick wouldn’t give me one. She said Snowchapel couldn’t spare a horse for ‘gaddings about.’ She was kind enough to give me the fare for the riverboat from High Branding to Queensmart, but I swear by Our Lady, she smirked when she said I’d have to walk to High Branding. She is a—never mind. It is part of Our Lady’s plan, I suppose, to blister, chill, and drench me.”
“I have always taken ease to be a sign of Our Lady’s favor,” said Sorrel. “I avoid discomfort as a sign of evil. Blessed are the lazy, as we say in the Cyan Cross Horde.”
“I envy you your theology.” Sister Rowan fingered her damp habit, made a moue of distaste, and reluctantly handed the towels back to Clovermead and Sorrel. She put her boots on again and got up with a sigh. Her boots squelched softly.
“Are you leaving already?” Clovermead asked plaintively.
“Duty is duty, as my mother vainly told me in my youth, so onward I must go. Walking will warm me, I suppose. Clovermead Wickward, I am delighted to see you have grown into a lovely young lady. Sorrel of the, um, Cyan Cross Horde, it is a pleasure to meet you. When I hear you profess your beliefs, I sincerely wish you were Abbess at Snowchapel.”
“When I am Abbess, no nun will rise before noon,” Sorrel devoutly murmured.
Sister Rowan laughed heartily. “I look forward to that day—I’m afraid we must part company now. I thank you both again for the use of the towels. The blessing of Lady Moon on both of you.” Sister Rowan reached down to a nearby puddle, dipped her finger in the water, and anointed their foreheads with a muddy dribble. She muttered a few syllables of the Moontongue and glanced down at the murky water—
She screamed. The nun fell heavily on the rock and clutched at her cheek. Blood streamed down her face. Something had ripped her face from her nose to her ear.
“Ursus clawed me,” Sister Rowan moaned. Her eyes were wide with fear. “He saw me and he reached out. Lady preserve me.” She shivered, and tears welled out of her eyes. They ran down her bloody cheek. Clovermead looked around wildly to see what had attacked the nun, but she saw nothing. She looked at Sister Rowan’s slashed flesh, and her own cheek tingled.
“I saw more in the puddle.” Sister Rowan’s eyes sought out Sorrel’s. Her pupils shone with silver fire. “The bear-priest is coming after you. He brings blood with him. You must ride to Snowchapel this instant. No more delays.”
“You have seen truly?” asked Sorrel, his face stark with fear. “This is not the Scrying Pool.”
“The Moon shines everywhere,” said Sister Rowan. The silver fire faded from her and her voice was weak with pain. Clovermead gave her back the towel, and Sister Rowan staunched the wound on her cheek. “The Scrying Pool is crystal clear, but all waters reflect Our Lady’s vision a little. I see that you carry a message, Tansyard. I see that the bear-priest wants to intercept it. I see Lord Ursus’ teeth and claws. I see you must ride fast, Sorrel of the Cyan Cross Horde.” She smiled faintly. “I never saw so much in the Scrying Pool. Our Lady’s eyes must be in me.”
“Night and stars,” Sorrel swore. “Miss Clovermead, I fear our lessons are at an end. You have not done badly, but do not be rash if true-trouble finds you. And keep away from the razzle-dazzle! You are not yet a trained soldier.”
“Are you going right now?” asked Clovermead. “It’s not fair! I’m never going to know what this is all about. I’m horribly frustrated.”
“When everything is settled, I will return and tell all to you,” said Sorrel. He flashed her a grin. “Good-bye, Miss Clovermead. You have given me a delightful week. You have my profound thanks.” And he was off and running toward the Ladyrest stable, his ragtag clothes flapping behind him.
“His condescension is insufferable,” said Clovermead. “Stupid Tansyard. Sister Rowan, who is Lord Ursus?”
“Blood and killing,” Sister Rowan said. Clovermead waited for an elaboration, but none came. Sister Rowan frowned and looked in the puddle again. “How do I avoid the bear-priests?” she muttered to herself. “Dear Lady, tell me which way to travel. His shadow is heavy on Linstock. I see him everywhere. Ha!” She grinned suddenly at Clovermead. “Abbess Medick is right—my visions never are very useful. Our Lady doesn’t tell me which way to travel, but she’s sent me a vision for you just now. My dear, something that belongs to you lies hidden in a nearby tree.”
Clovermead’s brow wrinkled. “I haven’t lost anything.”
“Sometimes the vision is unclear, but the water never lies. Did you misplace a doll when you were an infant?”
“Father says I broke them all.”
Sorrel galloped out of the stable on Brown Barley and kicked her north on the Road. He waved farewell, then dwindled and disappeared out of sight.
Sister Rowan nodded approvingly. “Bravo, Sorrel. Too few people pay proper attention to visions. It makes you wonder why they come all the way to Snowchapel to find out their future and then refuse to believe what they’ve been told. Tell me, who would you expect to see heading south on the Road this time of year?”
“Hyssop Nunsman,” Clovermead said instantly. “He always comes down to spend the winter in High Branding.”
“Of course!” said Sister Rowan. “How could I forget? Hyssop’s always goo
d at sniffing out news for us. In fact, I believe he said he’d accompany me south if I waited a few days. Unfortunately, the vision said I couldn’t wait even a minute. Well. Miss Clovermead, for your kindness I will reveal a Mystery to you. If there is great need, we nuns have ways of traveling discreetly.” She uttered a few more words of Moontongue and her face began to melt.
“Oh, heavens!” said Clovermead. “Does that hurt? Your nose is getting as big as a Low Branding plum. You look like Hyssop! I’d recognize his squint and his greasy red hair and the wart on his nose anywhere. Your pack looks like his sack full of furs. You’re not as big as Hyssop, but I don’t suppose most people would notice. If I weren’t paying attention, I’d swear you were him. How marvelous!”
“It is fun to sneak up on people unawares,” Sister Rowan admitted. She stood up and gave the towel back to Clovermead. “Good-bye, good-bye! I’m sorry I bloodied the cloth. Look in the trees!”
“Good-bye,” Clovermead called to the disappearing figure of Hyssop Nunsman. “Good luck! Lady bless you! Oh, it’s good-byes all around, excitement’s in the air, and here I am stuck in Timothy Vale the same as ever. How perfectly wretched. I suppose I’ll have to challenge Gaffer Miller’s ram to a duel if I want excitement.” Her shoulders slumped and she let the towel fall to the ground.
The puddle lapped against the bloody corner of the cloth. A growl like distant thunder bit into Clovermead’s bones as gore seeped into the water. She saw a claw flash in the puddle’s muddy scarlet.
Clovermead gulped hastily, made the sign of the crescent, and steadied herself. She looked around, but saw nothing. After a second she whistled nonchalantly. “Frightened of nothing! Just like a child. Silly, silly Clovermead,” she told herself disapprovingly. She paused. “But I don’t think I’ll tell Father about claws in puddles or Lord Ursus or anything like that. He’d worry about me and he’d send me to my room till I was a hundred and twelve and I’d never ever have a chance for another adventure. Did he see Sister Rowan through the window? I’ll have to tell him some story about who she was and why Sorrel left so suddenly. But nothing about bears.”
In the Shadow of the Bear Page 3
